Ice From Russia or A Random Merc's Journal
by ReallySelfConscious
Summary: This is a brief experimental story set in the universe of Dirty Bomb, by Splash Damage. I treat basic knowledge of the setting as a given, and take time to explore "what ifs." The story is told by a merc, and it follows his interactions with named and game present character (Sparks), and incorporates various characters from the game. It condenses snapshots into a single narrative.


**Preface** : It's been a _long_ while since I've done creative writing in the first person perspective. It's also my _first time_ attempting anything resembling a romance. There are a few things to note: one, Sparks' more error prone english is due to the fact that she is buzzed. Two, I exploit vagueness in the setting at present, so it may conflict with later lore. Three, I also sought to explain the constant changing of teams, seeming immortality of the mercs, and assumed a degree of persistence across battles (I assumed that regardless of what team they pick, the same group of mercs survive and take part in every level, which are viewed as singular events that occur in some order or another). The speaker is one of the many "nobody" mercs that I imagine are involved in the conflict. I felt I could write a merc's dialogue, but I was less certain I could tell a story from any specific merc's perspective. So I created a relatively well grounded character, capable, humble, and (I should hope) somewhat entertaining. Primarily relatable.

With any luck, I succeeded.

I hope you enjoy.

 **Note** : I wrote the following story and the above preface in January of 2016. Before posting this, I performed some mild editing. The point is, this may be dated. I also would like to note that I assumed the healing tech was crazy potent, but not as crazy as the game mechanics require. I also have no idea what to title this, so if the title sucks, I'm sorry.

* * *

Property of Thomas "Maestro" Colin Williams  
Please return to owner if found.  
Address: XXXX  
It's impolite to read somebody's journal without asking.  
I wrote this for me, when I'm old and senile. Not you. So please don't turn the page.

* * *

 **May 17th, 202X**

Well this is the first entry in my new journal. I prefer to start at new years, but unfortunately my old one has a nice sized hole in it. All that writing, gone. Thanks Vas.

This is gonna be a long one. I would have started writing sooner, but obviously I needed a new journal, and I sure wasn't about to ask anybody to do my shopping for me. Wouldn't have had much to write anyway: mostly spent the last few days in bed, doing some muscle building exercises, or being inspected by doctors.

Yeah, turns out getting shot in the gut really sucks. Especially when you're in radioactive London. Who'd have thought, huh? Well, nobody said merc work was easy. But it sure pays the bills, and there's money left over to send home to the folks. I still miss the ol' homestead, but they need the dough. Kinda wish I could do something else, but I suppose I never built that opportunity for myself. Got outta high school, went to the army, got outta the army, went to here. Don't have much else for "marketable skills."

Been a long while since I thought about my situation like this. It has a peculiar quality of seeming so normal during the day to day. But looking at the whole like I am now, I can see how crazy it really is. Especially the other mercs. I'm not some millionaire with airstrikes on demand, rogue with stolen military tech, or a maniac with explosives. My biggest weapons really are planning, patience, improvisation, and a not insubstantial dose of luck. And I suppose I can have a degree of pride in that.

Of course, I'd be lying to myself if I claimed I was never reckless. My injury is proof of that. I only wish I was terribly out done by some genius opponent, but the reality is much more embarrassing. I was writing in my journal on the field. 200 meters away, a bored Vassili was looking for somebody to shoot. And guess who he found, future self? That's right, it was you!

So he shot my journal (and as a consequence, me). Little shit always was a show off.

I swear, next time I see him, he's getting a bullet. Or some choice words. Guess it depends on who he's working for. The job-by-job agreement makes things confusing sometimes. it's really my fault more than his. I got cocky. Lesson learned: I'm writing in the safety of camp this time.

When I got back, I was surprised to see the recovery ward almost full. I'd been doing some extended recon and hadn't made radio contact with camp. Apparently we'd just been through one of the biggest fights in a while. Lot of newcomers, all in one area. Both sides took heavy casualties. Even the field medics were playing double duty as camp doctors, checking up on the wounded. With medical tech being what it is now, a gunshot wound is only a five day affair. But still, they've gotta watch your vitals, and with tissue regenerating so quickly, they have to monitor for tumors. Especially in our "unique and charming climate." (Rhino's words)

That's how I met her.

She was a newcomer, and I reckon one of the prettiest women I've ever seen. She spoke with a russian accent, and her english wasn't always perfect, but we could communicate just fine. Even though she looked young, her hair was white as snow. It was swept to the left, and almost looked feathery (dunno how else to describe it). Her skin was almost as pale as her hair, which I guess is because she's from Russia. Fitting with the pale white theme, her eyes were steel grey with the slightest hint of brown, and underneath them were two white medical crosses. The young doctor was petite, almost delicate, but she walked around with that air of confidence which all the mercs carry. Nobody would come here if they had self doubt.

Supposedly this whole mess of casualties was her fault. She was the sole medic for the op. Stuff like that makes me wonder if Jackal is just negligent, or if they're actively _trying_ to kill us. Oh hell, of course they want us dead. They wouldn't have to pay up. Anyway, her experimental medical tech (some kind of gun) stopped working. I can't fault her, personally. Pieces of equipment have their own personality, and they don't always behave. Case in point, her REVIVR (that's what it was called!) seemed to be possessed by a gremlin. She even had Bushwacker, Turtle, and Phoenix look it over. I don't know how she managed to convince them to give up their time for it. Maybe it was her pretty face.

Anyway, around noon on the second day I got back, the monotony was interrupted by a familiar sound. A long, loud crackling noise, like the horsetail fireworks that uncle Sid makes for parties. In all that noise, I heard Bushwacker screaming and cursing, and a minute later he was in the recovery ward with some nasty looking burns. All those fancy nano machines made sure he didn't get any permanent scarring, but they couldn't save his mustache. He looks strange without it. Everyone had a good laugh (at his expense) and now he refuses to go near the thing.

But back to the woman. The doctor. Cold, austere, professional. There was something mysterious about her (still is: never was able to get her to talk about herself). I'm not sure that she's really a doctor. Never heard her use the lingo, or examine the charts in the same way the others do. But I could see the twinkling of concern in her eyes when she thought nobody was looking. That's one thing I'll never forget about her. Those eyes. I'd catch her staring at me occasionally, out of my peripheral vision. Couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. During my stay, our chats were brief and formal, so I never did get the chance to hear her thoughts.

Of course, I tried to be polite and considerate. I passed my time reading, did what I could to help, and worked to be pleasant. I knew that she and all the other medical staff were doing their best. Girl was also taking some flak because of the op, so I didn't want to give her more trouble. But on top of that, it's generally inadvisable to piss off the person who's supposed to patch you up. "Phantom," who has failed to catch on to the fact that he isn't immortal, had no such concerns. In fact, he was one of the big reasons I tried to be the model patient.

That fucking katana wielding psychopath refused to take off his mask, couldn't stay quiet for a minute, and I know literally is overused but goddamn if he didn't have _literally_ nothing of value to say. Pretty sure everyone else in the recovery ward wanted to tell him to shut up, but then we might make "the list," as he called it. The man might be as smart as a rock, but he knows how to do his job, and the last thing we need is a fucking sword through our chest when we least suspect it.

Notable quotes include  
\- "ROOM SERVICE!"  
\- "Hey, are you sure you're from Russia? Because you're way too hot."  
\- "So, you guys want autographs? Trust me, they'll be worth a LOT in a year or two, when I'm known as the sole survivor of London."  
\- "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY WON'T DELIVER!?"  
\- "I got that TDSP." 'you mean PTS-' "TERRIBLY DESPERATE for SOME PIZZA."  
\- (often repeated. to everyone.) "Hey. Hey you. What's your name again?"/span/p

I know there's the unstated rule. "Shoot to wound, so we all stay in business.

Pretty sure he's going to break it. For everyone. We all need to call a meeting and talk about this. I'm considering just giving him a bullet. Maybe somebody will beat me to it.

I swear to god, if he kills me before that, I'll be pissed.

So I dealt with that for a good five days. I'm not going to put them down, because I'd really prefer to forget them. I will say that, in spite of Phantom's constant droning and habit of propositioning her, the doctor maintained a professional air. But I reckon it was finally getting to her near the end. It was subtle, but something about her body language made her seem (understandably) uncomfortable. Maybe it was the way she held her arms behind her back. Don't think anyone else noticed it, so maybe I'm just crazy. But what was strange is that she'd always glance at me shortly after, and only when I was reading. I wasn't about to complain, but I just didn't get it.

After an eternity we reached the evening of the last day, and the doc (I still didn't know her name at that point, and to be honest I still don't know her _real_ name) had been spending some extra time lingering by my bedside. I still wasn't sure why. She wasn't saying much. Looked like she had something on her mind, but it was hard to tell. I started to get concerned. " _Does she have bad news? Doesn't have the heart to break it to me?"_ I asked her if there was something wrong, and she said no. I decided not to press it and went back to reading. After some time, she packed up and left. I figured she was going to file the discharge paperwork. She returned 20 minutes later.

Her cheeks were flushed, and she smelled faintly of liquor. I figured that, at long last, she'd finally had enough. Phantom had driven her to drink. I only wished that she'd brought the bottle with her.

Despite her inebriated state, the doctor's posture and manner was as rigid as ever. "We must talk. Come."

" _Shit,_ " I thought. I was so close. I was already dressed to leave! The last thing I wanted was to be opened up twice in a week. First a bullet, and then surgery. At this rate, I don't think I'm ever going to get over my fear of needles. I'm still more afraid of getting pricked at the doctor's office than I am of getting shot on the job.

That's what I stewed in as we walked through the camp, past deployable prefab after deployable prefab. For all the CDA's bungling, their engineers are pretty slick; each one had an airlock, filtration systems, the works. A portable habitat, deployable in 10 minutes or less, that was the CDA guarantee. Jackal copied their design to the letter. As I looked around, marveling at the construction and desperately trying not to think about my impending doom, it became clear to me that we had walked by our destination.

"The clinic is behind us, doc."

"We go to my quarters. Doubles as office. Want privacy."

This did little to help my disposition.

" _Oh shit._ " She had to down one to break it to me, and now we need privacy? It must be bad.

The remaining walk was nerve wracking." _Is it disease,_ " I thought, as we neared her habitat. " _I bet it's cancer. Malignant. In my brain,_ " I mused, as we cycled the airlock.

"But I'd find out soon enough. After decontamination was complete, the door opened. The woman wasn't kidding. Her quarters almost looked like a doctor's office. One of the better prefabs too; wood floors, queen size bed, good lighting, even a small kitchenette (wonder how much they were paying her...). There was a small table with two chairs in the center, and a long desk covered in all sorts of medical instruments on the side.

"Have drink." She offered me a shot glass and set some rum on the table.

"Shoot doc, is the news really that bad?"

She looked at me confused for a moment, then burst out laughing. That was the first time I saw her smile, and man it made my heart melt. "No… no, you are healed. I have something else on mind."

"I breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh. Thank god. Well, what're you thinking, doc," I asked her as I poured myself a shot.

"I think we have little chat," she said, rigid once again.

"Lookin' to pass the time, huh? Sure. It's the least I can do to repay you. And thank you for the drink." I raised the tiny glass to her.

"I was only doing job," she said, playing disinterestedly with her hair. "Still," she looked up at me, "pleasure is mine."

"Well, I appreciate it." I downed the shot and almost gagged. It wasn't the alcohol, though I could definitely feel the kick. No, the rum was just unbelievably sweet. I'd have called it there, but I didn't want to refuse her hospitality. I poured myself another and tried to make some conversation.

"You're new here, eh?"

"Yes. Is odd, seeing a city like London so empty."

"Yeah, it takes some getting used to. Especially with the CDA clutter everywhere."

"Da. Jackal, too. Seems to be little difference in equipment."

"What, between CDA and Jackal?"

"Yes. Like this habitat."

"Heard the story behind the prefabs?"

"She cocked an eyebrow. "There is story?"

"Yup. We mercs, of our own accord, stole the design and gave it to Jackal."

She leaned back and crossed her arms. "Do tell."

"I'll give you some context that CDA and Jackal probably didn't. See, I've seen the whole story, since I was in the first wave of mercs who showed up to London. In the beginning they tried to pin us down with contracts, limiting us to a single employer. But we banded together in a kinda informal union. We demanded to be paid on a job by job basis. More jobs, better payouts, less competition overall. What were they gonna do: hire mercs to get rid of us?" I grinned and she chuckled. "Well, they tried, but we made a helluva team. Eventually CDA and Jackal gave up. They weren't going to send more after us. It was getting expensive, and they didn't want to make a scene. Hell, the last thing either of them wanted was to let the public know that London had gone from a disaster zone to a war zone. Of course, they still don't want that secret getting out, but hiding it's been getting harder, what with the damn orbital lasers and constant artillery bombardment. Anyway, once we got back in the CDA camp, myself and a few other mercs packed up one of the habitats when nobody was looking. Man, we had to work fast. We snuck it out in an EV and delivered it to Jackal. Boy were they shocked. We didn't ask anything for it. 'Just build'em,' we said. Nobody likes cancer."

"Is quite the story."

"Aw, easily one of the less crazy ones," I told her, before downing some more of the noxious poison (how she could choose to drink that is beyond me).

"It's got nothing on the time Jackal had us deliver some, quote unquote, EMP charges to a certain building. Dunno how they kept _that_ one out of the news."

"I am not sure they did." Her smile had grown irrepressible. I'd like to believe I was making her beam, but the liquor probably helped. "I saw tabloid during trip. 'London Anomalies Grow More Dangerous.' Cover picture was of skyline, with erm... zoom in on ruins of building."

"Anomalies, huh? What, do they think ghosts or something are bringing these buildings down?" I chuckled at the thought. "What's it like being an anomaly, doc?"

"Hmmm." She put her finger on her chin and looked up to the ceiling, as though greatly weighing the question. "Feels oddly like being mercenary." I laughed. "And please, call me Sparks."

"Ah, so that's you go by. Sure thing, Sparks. Dunno what they put on the sheet, but you can call me Tom."

"Interesting. Your sheet said Maestro. What is story there?"

"Yeah, that's my nickname," I shrugged. "Don't remember who started it. It's got nothing to do with my performance in the field, really. I can just play a mean fiddle. I was always good with my hands, so my ma got it for me one day. Been playin' it ever since. Played a few tunes in camp, and the name stuck."

"Good with your hands, you say?" Sparks leaned forward, with a knowing look.

"Uh, do- Sparks, perhaps you've had too much to drink."

"Pfffffft. Nyet." Sparks shook her head. "Is only buzz. Is enough when I forget phantom ramblings. But right now, is enough to have courage."

"Courage?"

She grinned and looked at me with sultry eyes. That cold austere woman was gone. "You are, how you say... Cute?"

In light of this, everything up until now was beginning to make a heck of a lot more sense.

I've always had some job or another as long as I can remember. Never did have time for romance. Not that I didn't want it, just too busy. What I'm trying to say is, I was prepared to listen to this woman tell me a lot of things I that didn't want to hear: I was _not_ prepared for this. But the alcohol was beginning to do it's work, so that helped a lit. "Well, it isn't the first word I'd use to describe myself. But for you, yes."

"Is that so? I am cute to you?"

"Very."

She leaned forward and rested her chin on the palm of her hand, smiling. "Tell me more."

"Well..." I put my hands together, thinking about everything I'd observed. "You keep your cards close to your chest, but I get the impression that you actually do care about others and your job. It's hard to know who you really are,We're not really good people, but I'd bet you're one of the nicer people out here, all things considered. You're just not one to show it."

"Oh?"

I grinned. "Plus you're a real looker."

"Is attractive?"

"Da," I said.

"Mmmm. Maybe you are onto something with your theory."

"Am I?"

"Well, y-"

The doorway intercom flipped on. "Sparks," came Phoenix's voice. "I need your help figuring out this stu- _interesting_ gun of yours. Bushwacker won't go near it, even with nanites. Surely when you sto- _acquired_ the gun, you got the schematics as well. We could use them."

She groaned and dragged her hand across her face. Where before she was all smiles, now she wore the same old rigid expression.

I smiled meekly. "Got to go, huh?"

"Yes. But… perhaps we do this again soon?"

"It'd be my pleasure."

She stood up, dusting herself off. "This makes two of us." Making her way into the airlock, she turned around and waved. "Do svidaniya."

"Ciao," I waved back.

She smirked as the door shut in front of her.

I made my way to my own bunk after a few minutes. Did some reading, and hit the sack.

She left camp this morning. Still don't really know anything about her.

If I see her out there, I don't know if I could shoot her. But I'm not sure that she'd have a similar problem with me. Hopefully.

I think I'm in love.

* * *

 **May 20th, 202X**

Well, I couldn't do it.

I was patrolling the outskirts again. Drones had spotted movement and command dispatched me to investigate. It was either CDA or looters, and as far as Jackal is concerned, both are bad for business. On my way out I was told that there was another operative in the area if I needed assistance.

I was taking my time, moving between cover, when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye (you lose tunnel vision fast in this line of work). On top of a building next to me. I took aim as I turned to the sky.

There she was, looking down at me. I could hear the thrum of her rifle charging as she stared at me through the sights.

"We stood like that for what felt like minutes, but it was only seconds. I tried, but I just couldn't pull the trigger. I'm not afraid to shoot women: like men, they can be damn dangerous, and there's no doubt in my mind that Sparks is such a woman. But I couldn't shoot her. Guess I'm sentimental. It'd explain why I keep a journal.

I lowered my gun, and my arms fell to my sides. I stared up at her, waiting. That stiff, professional expression didn't even flinch.

That's when I heard it.

That unmistakable decloaking sound. Directly behind me.

In my entire life, I don't think I've ever been as angry as I was in that moment. All I can really remember is a blinding rage, and a desperate attempt to get my body to respond in time. I screamed at the top of my lungs. "SON OF A _BITCH_

I had to do something, get a shot off, block the swing, just do _something_ to stop him, because damnit, anybody, _anybody_ but him.

Nothing doing. The sword was already raised high over his head. No time left. "WAZ GOOOOOOD, N-"

"Pew! (no, I can't think of a better way to approximate that noise her gun makes)

The sound of her rifle dropping Phantom was, perhaps, the second greatest noise I've ever heard.

The first is definitely his screaming.

"OH HOLY SHIT THAT STINGS, SAME TEAM, SAME TEAAAAAM!"

"Oops," came a distant shout. "I fix, one moment!"

As I turned to face Sparks, I saw the faintest hint of a smile as she nodded to the east. I smiled.

"Get outta here, huh?"

I took my cue leave, and began walking away, when through my earpiece I heard "don't worry man, I got ya. You're lucky I was nearby." It was Vassili's voice.

I motioned for her to hit the deck. A rifle cracked nearby right as she vanished.

"What? How'd she know… ?"

I looked to the second story of a bakery down the street.

"Hey Vas, I think I see somebody behind you."

"What!?"

I took aim as he stood up, going right for the lower center of mass, around where I got hit. I squeezed the trigger aaaannnddd- "JESUS CHRIST," came a voice over the microphone.

I know it's not good to be petty. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I'll admit, I enjoyed that more than I should have. "Oops. Sorry. Eyes were playing tricks on me. Looks like it was just you.

"FUCK, look, is this about the journal?"

"Actually no. But the loss of my journal and subsequent med tent stay with Phantom isn't really bringing on the remorse, you know?" I switched channels. "Command, we've got a casualty in section 36, second floor of the bakery, over." I switched back.

"-t over _300_ confirmed kills, mate. Gah, I swear, if you did that on purpose-"

"Sorry Vas. But if you can bellyache like that about your aching belly, you can start patchin' yourself up. I'll retrieve you shortly."

Yeah, I painted a target on my back, and yeah, I'm probably going to regret it later. But you know what? Today was a good day.


End file.
